


RED SANDS UNDER BLUE SKIES

by anzallamar



Category: Gentlemen Bastards - Fandom, The Lies of Locke Lamora, locke lamora sequence
Genre: Gen, Heist fic, locke & jean crash the Siena Palio, paper hats on horses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:15:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27179789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anzallamar/pseuds/anzallamar
Summary: Locke and Jean pull a two-men job in a Therin city - are they chewing more than they can swallow? Bring your own paper hat.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	RED SANDS UNDER BLUE SKIES

REMINISCENCE

“… And further behind Talisham, there lies…” Locke’s finger scratched the letterings on the map. “P-al…No, Tal-“

“Tal Sena. Very well now, that’s enough reading for today, I don’t want to strain your eyes.” Chains said, as the boy gleefully put away the maps that had made up the evening’s lesson on reading – and geography. 

“Now, I’m afraid that with Calo and Galdo away on apprenticeships, you are left as the sole proprietor of the dishes. Scrub them good. Your moral education…Ah, excellent! That face you’re pulling now-” Chains pointed at the boy’s grimace with the smoke he had just rolled up “That’s raw talent right there. You’re meant to walk the stages. Venaportha smiles on your gift for the theatrical…” He hid a smile with a puff of his smoke while Locke’s expression grew worse. “Set that cutlery to sparkle and I might just feel inclined to share some of my past travels… why not, in Tal Sena itself, shall we?” he said, as a small concession. 

Spirits rekindled, Locke immediately set to work. 

* * *

PART ONE

BY ANY OTHER NAME 

“I do not find myself entirely convinced by your proposal, Master Lamora” said Jean, fingers tracing around the last honey pastry left on the tray. 

“Master Tannen, your lack of flair _dampens my spirits_. It’s almost as if you lost all the enthusiasm that the prospect of a right good bit of trickery entails. It positively _swallows my heart_.” Locke frowned, adjusting the intricately-tied neck-cloth that was all the rage in Talisham at the moment. 

“Master Lamora, I dare say that it is you who has lost sight of our habitual scope. Alas, has the day come when the Thorn of Camorr stoops to fixing a glorified horse race? My eyes rue the sight of such a sorry spectacle!” 

“For fuck’s sake, Jean.” Locke said, abandoning their usual morning vocabulary game for a second. “If old Chains could be here to listen to you refer to the Most Extraordinary Palio of Tal Sena as a _glorified horse race_ , you’d find yourself en route to Jerem so fast it’d make your head spin. I knew all that Lucarno had spoiled you.” 

Jean waved him off. “I’m familiar enough with the specifics to know that it’s run for the honour of possessing some piece of cloth. That feels like a lot of work with little gain, whereas ourselves are in the business of a lot of work for a  _majestic_ amount of gain.” 

“What you call a piece of cloth is actually the Veil of Aza Guilla, you uncultured heathen, plucked from the Lady Most Kind Herself in time immemorial.”

“Nice, but I hold with the Crooked Warden, and He in His wisdom prefers hard coinage.” 

“It’s a square of spider-silk black as a moonless night, embroidered in white iron lace, and laid out with a hundred peerless diamonds, the cut of which has no equal in the goldsmith arts.” 

“Ah. Well then, I suppose….You know, Tal Sena? I’ve always wanted to visit …” 

* * *

REMINISCENCE

“Tal Sena”, Chains said, watching the rings of smoke curl around the alchemical lantern and then disappear in the gloom on top of the House of Perelandro. “One of Camorr’s bastard sisters from the days of the Therin Throne, nestled deep into the yellow plains beyond Talisham. Famous for its trade in…” and here Chains let hang a deliberate pause. 

“Wine, cereal, painters’ colours and wools!” Locke interjected. 

Chains nodded approvingly. “Correct. Add one of the most long-lived banking institutions to ever set a worried frown even on our good Meraggio’s face, and you’ve got yourself a recipe for a nice city-state of full coffers.” Chains took another puff. 

“But of course, the most important thing is, when dealing with Tal Sena you have to keep in mind that Senari people are just _fucking insane_.” 

* * *

PART TWO 

A PECULIAR KIND OF MADNESS

“The city colours are-“

“Black over white, with no accents. The coat of arms is colloquially referred to as a _balzana_ ” 

“Which is Throne Therin for-“

“Extravagance”

“And the city is held by-“

“The Exalted Twelve, a collegium of magistrates, one for each of the Therin gods.”

“Good. Of course, we might carry some small objection to such a system.”

“Indeed. Go on, though.”

“Alright. Here’s where it gets crazy. See if you can keep up, it took me the better part of last night just to get the basics down.” Jean took a deep breath and glanced at his notes. “The territory of the city is divided in…”

“Seventeen rioni, but of course that’s only in the current state of affairs. They used to be twentytwo-“

“Twentythree, actually.”

“-But then the number was fixed by decree-“

“Yes,” Jean sighed. “When the Exalted Twelve finally decided to put some discipline in these Palio matters. I admire the way you skirted over all the rioting; I read some choice bits of city where burnt down for their inconvenient positioning, apparently by the Senari themselves. In order to, aaah, _simplify_ the redesigning of the maps.”

“Come on, Jean. If Camorr hadn’t been built on water we would have totally followed suit.” 

Jean shook his head and gulped down a glass of the sweet pear cider they had bought off a travelling salesman on their way to the city. “I don’t know, Locke. The more I read about this city, the more I think that they don’t actually let you in unless you’ve certifiably lost all your wits.”

* * *

REMINESCENCE

“You have to understand, the Most Exalted Palio of Tal Sena is no ordinary race. I mean what I say when I tell you that those sorry bastards spend literally _all year_ preparing for it.” Chains went on. “Traditionally, only the very next day after a race is considered ‘free’. Although of course, I expect it realistically takes them at least a week to sleep off the hangover. The celebrations make one of our Revels seem like a dignified meeting of high priests of the Twelve, while the feuding and plotting going on behind the scenes would make Camorri dons blush and weep in genuine admiration.” 

Locke looked up. “You ran this race?”

“Good heavens, no. I wouldn’t ran in the Palio if Morgante himself with his flaming sword came a-knocking.” Chains flicked the cigarette butt over the railings and it disappeared into the night. “No, I found myself in the city under the guise of a Senari man of business, and the rules forbid actual citizens from riding the horses, on account of all the feuding and plotting I just mentioned. Not that it helps prevent any of that, of course; it’s actually considered bad form not to try and cheat your rival rioni. Besides, I wasn’t actually on a game: just accompanying a friend and a friend of a friend on… a friendly visit .”

“The….uhm, _right_ sort of friends?” 

“Ah, I see you’re catching up. No, no Right People were present: at this point in time Camorr wasn’t even a seed in the garden of Barsavi’s mind, and I was a bright-eyed young thief looking to charm a living out of the world. Absolutely zero fucking _sense_ , of course, mind, as befitting my age.” Chains set down. “A young Camorri don wished to tour the city-states as part of his coming-of-age journey, and my friend and I had been employed to smooth any cracks he might encounter. My friend acted as bodyguard; I pledged my wits.”

“But something happened?”

“Well, on the eve of the race, we had been invited to the traditional banquet, courtesy of one of the more obscure rioni. Wine and words both flowed irresponsibly and it just so happened that the young Camorri don in our care made a somewhat…unwise bet.”

“How unwise?”

“It would not be an exaggeration to say that it would _eventually_ amount to the current treasury of our own Most Serene Duchy.” Chains took a moment to run a deliberate calculation in his mind. “No, I’d say it’s perfectly accurate to say so.”

“Aaaaaah. That’s… quite a lot.” 

“I had to put together a quick fix. I only had a friend, a dog, three spoonfuls of genuine Camorri ginger oil, and a paper hat.” Chains said, completely serious.

Locke gawked.

“The hat was the most important piece.” 

* * *

  
  


PART THREE

DEVIL IN THE DETAILS

“Have you picked the mark? Which rione are we sponsoring?”

“The Cockleshell; it’s perfect for our aims. It hasn’t won in fifty years and its members are getting positively rabid with anticipation,” Jean said. 

“Flying a sea slug to a horse race and _not winning_ : I’d hardly call that surprising,” Locke replied.

“Moreover, its ancestral rival, the Goat, is this year’s favourite in the runs. Apparently it has been graced by luck in the sorting of the horses.” Jean went on.

“Ah yes; I remember that part. How’s our horse?”

“By all accounts, average.”

“Well, that sucks. Of course, it doesn’t really matter, does it?”

“The magistrates of the Cockleshell are positively reassured by the fact that their new prized rider from the rogue canton of Emberlain, Markus Fehrwight, will prove a critical point in their advantage” Jean flicked through a few of his papers. “His stipend will be _outrageous,_ and paid in advance, as per tradition.” 

“It is a pity that Fehrwight is going to succumb to his terminal case of fictitiousness.”

“Indeed it is. I still think we should have made him Camorri, though: I think it fits him better. Or Verrari.”

“No need to besmirch the city’s name when we ride out of Tal Sena on the morning of the race, Jean. Let Emberlain take the hit.”

* * *

PART FOUR

EYE ON THE PRIZE

Locke and Jean sat on velvet cushions in the apartments graciously provided by the Most Noble Rione of the Cockleshell. Metaphorically, they were also sitting on a large bag of gold, also graciously provided. The remnants of a lavish dinner were laid out on the table. 

Locke poured out some more Verrari alchemical red; the wine turned to silver swirls and then settled for a deep turquoise. Jean took up his glass. 

“To deep pockets poorly guarded,” he said

“To the Father of Necessary Pretexts-“ Locke continued.

“\- and to Aza Guilla, the Lady Most Kind –“

“\- may they smile on this particular line of bullshit and speed our passage to the next town over–“ There was a knock on the door. It took but a moment for Locke to spin back into his role. “Who’s this?” he asked, in a harsh Vadran accent. 

Jean flexed his shoulders; the Wicked Sisters dropped into his grasp like ripe fruit. 

“It’s the Magistrate of the Rione, Master Fehrwight. We’re here for the traditional Seclusion,” said the voice behind the door. 

“Ah, yes of course,” said Locke. He made some quick, interrogative hand gestures to Jean, who frantically consulted his notes: the body of rules concerning the Palio was only sparingly written down and relied largely on closely-guarded lore and assumed knowledge, whose tracking down had been one of the most difficult aspects of the whole game. “I’m afraid to say I cannot afford to be disturbed on the eve of the race. Surely you can manage among yourselves…?”

“But, Master Fehrwight!” the voice said. “It is tradition that the appointed rider sleeps in an enclosed room at the Temple of Dama Eliza, together with the horse, and guarded by the whole rione!” 

A quick glance out the window gifted Locke with the sight of about three hundred people, all expecting him under his rooms, and draped in the rione’s red-and-blue. 

They all had torches and, Locke noticed, a lot of them had brought their own pitchforks.

“Ah,” Locke said. Jean made the handsigns for _nothing to be done, go with them for now_. “Very well.” 

* * *

PART FIVE

DESPERATE MEASURES

There was only a short walk between the House of Dama Eliza and the location of the race, so Jean had engineered to spend it all briefing Locke as much as humanly possible. Locke wasn’t responding well;, the rione traditionally escorted its rider to the race and, although they maintained a respectful distance, it was rather like moving in a ring of people.

“Jean. Jean, you have to break me out. I can’t do this, Jean, I can’t ride.”

“I thought you had been sent to apprentice under Dama Eliza? And I’ve seen you ride countless times in Camorr!”

“That’s for show, Jean! You can never do anything more than a light jog in Camorr!” Locke hissed under his breath, “Can you believe the floor of the square they use for this godsforsaken race is all Elderglass?”

Jean nodded gravely. “I do believe they cover it with sand for the occasion, though. And it’s only three laps.” He neglected to mention that the Palio square had a particular curvature which apparently made it extra hard to keep oneself on the saddle. 

“That just makes it _worse_!”

“Look,” Jean said. “You don’t necessarily have to _win_. Remember, the most important thing is making sure _the Goat does not_.”

“Oh, that helps. Thanks a fucking lot, Jean.”

“Here’s your whip.” 

“No amount of whipping will make me run first, Jean.” 

“It’s not for the horse,” Jean said. “It’s for the other riders.”

“Fucking precious. Remind me, whose idea was this, again? My, do I feel like an idiot.” Locke sighed. “Very well, then, you fucking pissants! Bring it on.” He shouted to no one in particular – his procession of supporters thought it directed to the contestants and responded with a cheer. “I’m the Thorn of Camorr, Jean.” Locke whispered. 

“I know.”

“The Thorn of Camorr cannot be harmed by man nor beast.”

“Nor gravel.”

“Nor gravel. Fucking shit, I’m so fucking stupid, how can I always get myself into the fucking shits like this, Jean?” 

“Still, the Thorn of Camorr.” Jean handed him a small packet. “I spent all night looking up a loophole in the rules. Apparently, the race can be won even if the horse casts off its rider. If push comes to shove, use this, fall off dramatically, and pray to the Crooked Warden.” 

Locke sniffed a faint scent of ginger oil. 

* * *

REMINESCENCE

Locke’s eyes stared wide, and he could not believe the incredible story he had just heard. “But…did you win?” he asked.

“Hhm? Oh, yes.” Chains said. “Yes, we won. Coin, glory eternal, the Veil of Aza Guilla. The score was…unforgettable.” The thieving priest seemed to close the matter at this, but then, as if by a secondary thought, he added: “Still, I’d rather walk to Karthain in a dona’s silk smallclothes than set foot in the damned town again. Senari are crazy, boy, absolutely fucking insane. But whatever you do, Locke, if by chance, misfortune or the inscrutable will of the gods you ever find yourself in Tal Sena, mark my words: _don’t forget the hat_.”

“Sure,” said Locke, already half-asleep. 

* * *

PART SIX

ATTENTION TO DETAIL

“I forgot the gods-fucking-damned hat,” said Locke. 

Jean was in that weird place between crying of laughter and just crying. “You did. Oh, by the thirteen gods, you did. You forgot  _the horse’s_ paper hat!” 

“Sweet merciful Perelandro, the victory’s invalid _because of a hat_?” 

“I didn’t make the rules, Locke. These crazy bastards made the rules, and the rules say that riderless horse still counts, but no hatless horse can win the race.” 

“Well then, I hope Iono shits bloody water all over this fucking city and then sets it on fire.” Locke tore his shimmery red-and-blue jacket and stomped on it. “I should have listened to you, Jean! You were absolutely right! They’re _insane_!” 

Jean wiped tears from his eyes and took a moment to steady his breathing. “Oh, if Calo and Galdo were here. This is the funniest fucking shit.”

“I’d be inclined to agree, but you seem to forget there’s about four thousand people out there out for poor Markus Fehrwight’s blood. People in seashell costumes. I expect they want their money back”

“Then let poor Markus fade in the ether. And I have to correct you on the estimated dimensions of the angry mob: I do expect the entire city is out of the gods’ grace at the moment.” Jean smiled a little wicked grin. “You see, while everyone was distracted by the happenings in the square, I seized the occasion to get a little nearer to the authorities…” He took out a carefully-folded package of oiled paper. 

“You don’t say…You didn’t…Oh. Jean. Jean, you wonderful son of a bitch.” 

“My mother was a peerless woman. It would break her heart to see what sort of bad company I’ve fallen in,” Jean rebuked by habit. “Come on now. Open it.”

With trembling hands, Locke unwrapped the package as he and Jean stared with bated breath. The Veil of Aza Guilla fell out and folded itself rather unceremoniously on the table. 

Jean said a rather uncouth word.

“Jean,” Locke said, fighting to keep a sort of hysterical laughter in. “Punch me bloody if I’m wrong, but it appears that the good people of Tal Sena spend all year organizing a horse race that lasts three minutes at best, in order to win a _fucking black dishcloth with a dozen sequins that I wouldn’t wipe my arse with._ ”

“They’re insane. They’re all insane.”Jean wiped his hands over his face. “Gods, but you have to wonder… This can’t be it, can it? What happened to the real Veil?”

“I guess it was stolen ages ago,” Locke said. “And they can’t fucking tell, obviously. But it doesn’t matter, does it? All it matters to them it’s their godsdamned bloody horse race.”

“We have to pull a vanish, Locke.” 

“Spend a couple of weeks in the Talishani Islands, then ride home and pretend it never happened. Crooked Warden knows I’ll do my best to forget. Stuff the damn thing down the basin, for starters.” 

Jean stopped, as if suddenly struck by a thought. “Wait. I have a better idea.”

* * *

PART SEVEN

A MIRACLE GRANTED

After three days spent riding like all hells had got loose, the two thieves welcomed Talisham’s stale and salty air with a deep sigh of contentment. Locke and Jean stared at the city gate with loving relief. 

“You never told me what you did with the Veil,” Locke said.

“Ah,” Jean said. “Aza Guilla plucks as she wills, and gives as she wills. It would appear a pious priest was granted a vision, showing him the place where the Veil had been hidden.”

“I see,” Locke said. “That pious priest’s name wouldn’t happen to be Tavrin Callas, now, would it?” 

“The ways of the gods are countless.”

There was silence as they approached the gate. Then Jean said: 

“I suppose the only regret is that we came away empty-handed.”

“I would object to that. I should say you were not the only one masquerading as a priest, lately.”

“Oh?”

“And what with the city busy witnessing some sort of miracle over at the House of Aza Guilla, surveillance was rather lax over at the House of Gandolo.”

“That wouldn’t be where the constabulary gathered the proceedings of all the bets, while setting up the investigations on the irregularities of the race… would it?”

“All I can say is that I’m riding on the heaviest fucking saddle of the Therin world.”

“Locke. Locke, you magnificent bastard.”

“ _Gentleman_ Bastard.”

* * *

ADDENDUM

The extraordinary miracle granted by Aza Guilla has since then been celebrated in Tal Sena by the addition of another horse race, about a week after the customary one. 

**Author's Note:**

> I took some liberties in researching the Palio lore because it's intricate as all hell and so I only used the merest grasps of it, adapting its complexity to the length of the story.
> 
> 1\. Yes, Chains's original escapade featured Maranzalla and Nicovante, both yet untitled, of course  
> 2\. Did Chains steal the Veil? Or, as Jean put it, these people are so beyond the edge that there was never any Veil at all?   
> 3\. The historical, real-life Palio also has a second race, held in honour of that one time Spanish soldiers stole the Palio and the Virgin Mary miracolously restored it. 
> 
> There was no Palio this year ... let's make do


End file.
